Face of Danger (7 page)

“Get her!” she hollered to one of the bodyguards headed back to the limo, just as an uproar of laughter from the crowd made the poor little dog run faster. “Oh my God, she’s going to kill me,” Vivi whispered into her hand, still covering her mouth in disbelief as the dog ran right to the limo, the birth defect obvious in a clumsy stumble of a gait that slowed her down.

The crowd exploded with a scream of “Stelllllllaaaaa!” sounding like two hundred bad imitations of Marlon Brando, and Vivi didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream with them.

“Maybe she hates to fly,” the pilot suggested, eyes crinkling with laughter.

Vivi bent down in time to see the dog reach the limo and jump toward the door, finally caught by one of the bodyguards. This elicited another roar from the onlookers and another six billion flashes. Stella’s attempted escape would be on every blog in the world before their plane landed in Nantucket.

Vivi’s cell vibrated. That would be Cara, no doubt. Pointing her little finger from four hundred feet away. She pulled out the phone, expecting a text of chastisement, or maybe something simple like
You’re fired.
But the screen was blank except for Lang’s phone number. He’d texted nothing?

Vivi scrolled down to see if she just missed his message, but there was nothing. Why would he text nothing?

She stepped away from the door, turning to the main cabin. Her gaze settled on a man reclining in a leather seat, his legs up and ankles crossed, a phone blocking his face.

Who the hell was…

No—oh, God, no. This was not possible.
This was not happening
.

He inched the phone to the right, just enough to reveal half his face. Enough to confirm her worst nightmare. “How many times are you going to fall for the same trick?” he asked.

What the holy hell was he doing here?

She stared through the netting, the thin black gauze of her hat’s veil not doing enough to temper the heat of his gaze as it took a slow, easy trip over her, from shiny black extensions all the way down to the peekaboo toes and ankle-strap shoes. Back up to her face, he lifted one brow and barely nodded in appreciation. “This is a good look for you, Vi—”

“Who are you?”
Please, Lang, don’t say my name
.

For a moment, he was fooled. She could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes, then his mouth set in one of his most humorless expressions. “FBI. Who are
you
?”

Her knees weakened at the thought of hidden cameras and secret microphones, the conversation being played into the back of that limo right this minute. She’d be fired before takeoff.

“I’m the one who calls the shots on this plane.” She channeled every nuance of Cara’s inflection and personality into the words, even lowering her voice to the actress’s more throaty register. “So let’s get something straight. I don’t want to talk to anyone until we land and I’m home in Nantucket. I’ll be in the back cabin for the duration of the flight and I do not want to be disturbed for
any
reason.”

His jaw unhinged just enough to know she’d nailed the sultry voice and diva attitude. Maybe he was unsure who she was. More likely, he saw through the disguise and was humoring her.

So before he could whip off her hat and confirm whatever suspicions he might have, she waltzed right past him, opened the back door to the bedroom cabin, and slammed it closed, locking the door with trembling fingers. Then she fell against it.

Now what? She had to do something, and fast. Lang
would be pounding on the door any second, calling her by her real name, demanding she come out and reveal her true self. Every word would be transmitted to Cara, who’d have the Guardian Angelinos out of business before this flight landed in Massachusetts.

She
couldn’t
let him say her name. But how could she stop him? She could text him. Would a camera see her send a text and see him read it?

Do whatever it takes to convince anyone you are me.
Cara’s voice rang in her ears. What would it take?

Be creative.

A soft tap, much too gentle to be Lang, made her back away from the door. “What is it?” she demanded, matching Cara’s superstar arrogance.

“Uh, Ms. Ferrari?” It was Lang. Calling her Ms. Ferrari?

She swallowed hard. “What?”

“I have something I think you want.”

“Unless it’s privacy, I don’t want a thing.”

A small whining sound squeaked through the door. “Your dog is crying, Ms. Ferrari. I think she wants you.”

Doubtful she wanted Vivi, but Cara would never ignore her dog. Slowly, she turned the latch, then inched the door open. Lang stood just on the other side with a tiny dog curled against his chest.

Stella let out a low, hateful growl at Vivi.

“Or maybe she doesn’t want you,” Lang said, fighting a smile. “Why don’t I just bring her in?” Before she could stop him, he muscled the door open and got inside, instantly closing the door behind him.

She shook her head, hoping the plea in her eyes would keep him from opening his mouth. He wasn’t fooled by the disguise, that much she could tell by the amusement
and amazement in his eyes. But he couldn’t say a word. He
couldn’t
say her name. She had to pray there were only listening devices, not cameras, embedded in the plane.

Be creative.

He took a breath, ready to launch into a speech. “Listen to me, V—”

She put both hands on the collar of her shirt and ripped it open, popping the buttons and tearing the fabric, revealing a wisp of lace that Cara called a bra.

That shut him up.

“I told you I want privacy.”

“I see…”
Breasts
. “That.”

“So if your job requires you to stare at me, then fine. Have a seat, I’m going to change out of this ridiculous costume. My stylist is absolutely over the top sometimes, dressing me from the movie.”

Colt couldn’t move, so he remained rooted to the floor, the dog folded in his arms like she never wanted to leave. He knew the feeling. Nothing could get him to move as he drank in the sight of Vivi Angelino doing something she’d only done in his imagination. Strip.

It was Vivi, wasn’t it? He’d bet everything he had that behind that black net, underneath two feet of fake hair, and just inside that lacy piece of nothing was a woman he
thought
he knew very well. So what the hell was she up to? This was the last thing he’d ever expect from her.

The jacket fell, followed by the torn blouse, revealing curves and cleavage he didn’t think Vivi had. A thread of doubt wrapped around his always certain brain.

He tore his gaze from the beautiful body to peer hard through the netting. Under it, he could see midnight eyes
that should be Vivi’s, could be Vivi’s, but they were heavily disguised by black eyeliner and a broom’s worth of thick lashes and a smear of shadow that shimmered when she looked down. Her lips, glossier and fuller than he’d ever noticed, tipped in a whisper of a smile as she gave all that hair—all that glorious, sexy, amazing, long hair—a purposeful shimmy behind her shoulders so it couldn’t block an inch of her nearly naked torso.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his throat surprisingly dry.

“I told you.” As she reached behind her, in a move that jutted out her breasts even more, a zipper scraped and the skirt loosened. She waited a beat, almost as if she wanted the dramatic effect, then slowly maneuvered the material over her hips, inching it down to reveal a taut, flat belly, an adorable inny navel, and the skinniest scrap of more white lace between her legs. “I’m changing.”

The skirt hit the floor, and his pulse tripled. Her legs were forever long, muscular, sleek, and—holy shit—she had a tattoo on her inner thigh, three-quarters of the way up, a palm’s-width from the patch of white lace.

Wordlessly, she pivoted, and as if the front weren’t stupefying enough, she offered a shot of her ass: tight, high, round, and bare but for a thong strap that nestled between her cheeks and rested just under the dimples of her lower back.

Vivi?

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Of course. All blood necessary for brain function had cascaded south, already gathering in one about-to-be-obvious place.

A suitcase had been delivered while he’d waited on the
plane, and it lay on the bed. She leaned over to open it, propping her ass a little higher, spreading her legs a little wider, killing his ability to think a little more.

She unzipped the bag and pulled out something yellow, which she threw on the floor. Then she dug around and dragged out one long, shiny black boot, then the other.

She wouldn’t put those on. She wouldn’t.

Would she?

Still unable to talk or breathe, he slowly set the dog down, letting her scamper away toward the en suite bathroom. Colt leaned back against the door, crossed his arms, and did the only thing a red-blooded human male could do. He watched.

She stepped away from the bed, her back still to him, as shockingly at ease with her body as any woman he’d ever seen. She lifted one knee and pointed her toe, slowly sliding it into the boot. She eased it up to her thigh, then folded practically in half, the hat staying pinned in place. With her knees locked, ass up, tits visible from between her legs, nearly falling out of the bra as she held the position, she speared him with a look of pure sex from between her legs.

Could Vivi even think of something like that? Doubt shadowed his mind.

She slowly zipped up the boot, standing as she finished.

“Everybody loves these on me,” she said, her voice kind of like Vivi’s, but kind of not. “Reminds them of—you know—that movie.”

He nodded. Maybe. He thought about nodding. “Yeah.”

She started on the other boot. “You like your job, FBI Man?”

“Most of the time.” Right now he loved it.

“You look like you’d be good at it.” Still the little throaty sound of Vivi, but her diction was perfect, the trace of a Boston accent was gone, and—

Jesus Christ, it
was
Vivi, wasn’t it?

For the first time since the woman had gotten on the plane he seriously wondered if maybe he was wrong. Maybe this really was Cara Ferrari. Maybe Vivi, was right about the resemblance.

She bent over again, pole-dancer style, her hair draping on the floor, but the hat must have been pinned in place.

But what about that hair? If that was a wig wouldn’t it come off? Was Vivi Angelino even able to move like that? Look like sin in leather and lace? Vivi, who favored cargo pants and shapeless T-shirts?

When she finished the zipping, she turned to him, hand on one hip, head tilted flirtatiously. “If you want, I’ll skip the dress, but it does kind of complete the outfit.”

A speaker crackled and she visibly startled, glancing side to side for the source of the sound.

“Ms. Ferrari, this is Captain Wahl. We’re just about ready to taxi out of here, so if you and Assistant Special Agent in Charge Lang would be kind enough to buckle up back there, we’ll get you on your way to Nantucket promptly. Looks like smooth flying ahead.”

It certainly looked smooth in the back cabin.

She smiled. “That’s quite a title you’ve got. What should I call you?”

Of course, Vivi would joke about the title. So was this Vivi? “Call me crazy for letting this go on so long.”

With a sex-kitten laugh, she strutted like liquid sin to the two leather recliners on the other side of the small cabin, side by side, there for the sole purpose of buckling up during takeoff and landing.

He followed, of course. Because keeping an eye on her was his job. And figuring out what the hell she was up to was also his job. Was this Vivi Angelino’s version of going undercover? Then someone was in big trouble. Like him.

She slipped into one of the chairs, stretching out like a cat. A cat in white wisps of lingerie and thigh-high black boots. The netting stayed securely over her face, but this close, he could scrutinize her features. That was Vivi. It had to be.

Right?

Uncertainty gnawed as he sat next to her and automatically pulled on his seat belt, aware that a bit of a tent had already grown in the crotch of his khakis.

She skipped the seat belt, but leaned close to him, stared at that rise, and slipped one glossy lip under a tooth, biting the blood right out of it. “I’m sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable, Mr. FBI Agent?”

“I’m very comfortable,” he said, not pulling away. “Ms. Ferrari.”

At the use of her name she dropped back, seemingly satisfied as the whine of the engines filled the cabin.

“How long are you going to play this game?” he asked.

She bristled. “This is not a game.”

“Then what do you call it, Vi—”

“Please.” She closed her hand over his arm, squeezing hard as she turned to him, the net veil a thin barricade between their faces, her dark eyes pleading.

“Yes?”

Very slowly, she slid her hand from his arm to his thigh, spreading white-tipped, diamond-covered fingers. Not the hands of Vivi Angelino, who never wore nail polish and kept her only diamond poked in the side of her nose.

“Could you buckle my seat belt for me? You know, just to make sure it’s… secure.”

He said nothing, aware of how close her hand was to his growing erection. “If you’d like,” he said.

“I think we’d both like,” she said suggestively.

He dragged the belt over her bare belly, his forearm brushing the bottom of her breasts as his fingers dug for the end of the seat belt. Click. “Got it,” he said.

“Mmmm.” She rocked just a little in the seat, the plane’s acceleration pushing his arm against the swell of her breasts. “You certainly do.”

As he drew away, her fingers tightened on his thigh, the pressure and heat shooting more life into his already stiff cock. “Takeoff scares me a little,” she whispered.

“
You
scare me a little.”

She laughed. “Thank you.”

Centimeters from her face, he could feel the warmth of her breath and inhale a flowery, feminine smell that was so not Vivi.

His fingers itched to lift that veil and study the angles of her face he knew so well. Without giving into the urge, he looked hard through the net. Where was the nose piercing? Not so much as a pore was visible on her creamy skin, let alone a pierced hole for jewelry. Could she hide that? He’d never seen it out before.